


All work and no play

by Askellie (NadaNine)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fontcest, Humiliation, M/M, Not explicitly consensual, Portable Pussy Trope, Sibling Incest, sexual extortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 03:51:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16846582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadaNine/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: [Underfell] Sans learns an important lesson about locking his bedroom door and not leaving his lewd, stress-relieving magical constructs just lying around where his brother might find them.





	All work and no play

**Author's Note:**

> This is normally not the kind of work I would post to my AO3 given that it is extremely unfinished, but with Tumblr going down I want to make sure people can still find my small/incomplete/teaser works so here it is. This is a piece I'd like to return to at some point, if time and inspiration permits since the portable magic pussy trope is one of my faves.

The first sign of anything wrong happens completely without warning. He’s sitting at his sentry post, actually doing his job for a change, sheer boredom compelling him to watch a beetle crawling across the desk like it’s the most interesting thing in the world when the very startling, intimate intrusion has him screeching and falling out of his chair. The beetle wisely scuttles off, narrowly dodging the sudden explosion of bones protruding from every nearby surface as Sans jumps to his feet, looking for the source of what his unprepared instincts had immediately assumed was some sort of attack.

An assailant fails to materialise, but the sensation escalates from its initial, forceful entry to a more exploratory scissoring of digits curling into the softness of an opening that he typically _doesn’t have_ , and with a splutter of panic and disbelief he immediately shortcuts back into his own living room.  
“PAPYRUS!”

His shout makes Papyrus startle – well he’s not the only damned one whose fucking _startled_ – and whatever’s inside him is roughly yanked out with enough force that his knees nearly buckle as he staggers up the stairs. As he fears, his bedroom door is open, and when he lurches over the threshold Papyrus turns with a defensive glare already in place.

“What are you doing home?” Papyrus snaps, eye-sockets narrowed suspiciously. “You’re meant to be at your post.”

“What are you doing in my room?” Sans counters, glancing around frantically and finally spotting the familiar glow of his possession nearly hidden in his brother’s broad palm. He lunges for it desperately. “Give me that!”

Papyrus reacts more from instinct than intent, neatly deflecting him and using his greater height to hold the prize well out of Sans’s reach. “Your door was open so I thought I would take the opportunity to clean your room. Did you know I have found all the missing spoons from our kitchen? And also the television remote! That has been missing for months!”

Sans keeps his room locked for a _reason_. He knows Papyrus would be invariably drawn to the chaos of his room and stumble over something he shouldn’t. This is slightly better than finding his resets journal, or any of the notes left over from his days at the Lab, but it’s still pretty damn awful.

“Boss!” he growls, frustrated that Papyrus is so blithely and easily thwarting his efforts just because he’s so damn tall. “I’ll clean it myself, just-”

“And then,” Papyrus goes on, something like unbridled glee stealing into his voice. “What else do I find but _this_ disgraceful thing-”

Sans’s skull is burning from embarrassment. He makes another valiant leap for the toy. “Give it back already!”

“No!” Papyrus says simply, giving Sans a prim shove that sends the smaller skeleton tumbling back onto his mattress. “Is this why you spend so much time in your room? How completely irresponsible of you! It’s even enchanted, although I can’t imagine why anyone would do such a thing.”

Sans can only stare in horror as Papyrus brings it level with his eyelights for closer examination, trying to decipher the complicated threads of magic woven through the soft, jelly-like cylinder that is meant to be for Sans’s own private enjoyment. His brother squeezes it carelessly, making Sans’s breath hitch, garnering a suspicious glance.

“Is this _your_ magic?” Papyrus asks, turning it over in his hands so he can stare down the flesh-like folds of its opening. “Honestly, Sans, of all the things for you to-”

He crudely shoves his fingers back inside it, a touch of magic on his phalanges as he tries to tease out the enchantment to discern what it does, but the effort becomes blatantly unnecessary as against all effort not to, Sans arches back, eye-lights rolling as a positively shameful sound bubbles out his throat. Papyrus freezes, staring at his brother and then back at the toy, putting two and two together far too easily.

Just for confirmation, he draws his fingers back out, and then slowly eases them back in again, pressing firmly at the tight inner passage. Sans whimpers, knees drawn tight together, but of course there’s nothing they can do to hamper Papyrus’s movements. The magical nerves on the inside of the toy are tied directly to Sans’s magic. He can feel it no matter what his body is doing, or wherever it might be.

“B-boss, stop,” he croaks, trying to master the way his body is trembling, flooded with endorphins and too-keen sensation. “You win, I’ll clean my room, I’ll do whatever you want just-hnnnngh, don’t, ah, AH!”

His objections break apart incoherently as Papyrus simply plunges into the toy again, seemingly fascinated with the way Sans bucks and gasps against the mattress. It’s completely different from when he does this to himself, when he knows what to expect and laziness usually keeps the pace slow and gentle. Sans feels completely undone in no time at all, his bones aching with need and all his resistance completely evaporating in the face of Papyrus’s bright, entranced stare.

Except with painful suddenness, the sensation comes to an abrupt stop. Sans looks up only to find Papyrus tucking the toy away, his expression remarkably composed.

“I’ll be confiscating this,” he tells Sans, turning on his heel and moving for the door. “Return to your post. We can discuss the return of your property once your duties are complete.”

Sans doesn’t manage to find his voice until Papyrus is well out of ear-shot. Even then, he isn’t exactly sure what he would have said.

* * *

 

Sans spends the rest of the day at his station perched on the edge of his chair, completely paranoid, but nothing else happens. He thinks Papyrus must have decided he’d gone too far, and goes home expecting to find the toy on his bed, maybe with a scathing post-it note attached.

He doesn’t. And when he works up the nerve to ask Papyrus about it, he finds his brother has no intention of relinquishing his hostage.

“Clearly you cannot be trusted with your possessions,” Papyrus scolds him, smirking wickedly. “Just imagine if this had fallen into the wrong hands?”

As far as Sans is concerned, it already has. He knows he’s sweating visibly as Papyrus nonchalantly rolls the toy around in his hands.

“You can have it back when you have proven you can be more responsible,” Papyrus says, and Sans stifles a groan because he should have known his brother was going to exploit his new leverage in the most demeaning of ways, like ensuring Sans actually gets to work on time.

It begins the next morning.

“WAKE UP, LAZY BONES!”

His door shakes from the force of Papyrus’s knock, but both Sans and the door have become resilient to the abuse. Sans grumbles back something that sounds vaguely like assent and rolls over, fully intending to go back to sleep for another half an hour.

The teasing scrape of a claw against the folds of his toy’s entrance changes his mind immediately. He screeches, rolling out of bed and scrambling for the door. Sans flings it open to glare furiously into his brother’s smug face, but his knees are pressed awkwardly together and shaking slightly so his posture isn’t terribly fearsome.

“Breakfast is ready,” Papyrus announces, bearing his fangs in a truly delighted smile. Sans has no choice but to follow him down the stairs, trying to figure out if there’s any safe way to pick-pocket the toy from the depths of his brother’s armour. Unfortunately he’s keeping it secured up inside the chest-piece, so unless he wants to get caught blindly feeling around in his brother’s ribcage, there’s little chance of finding it.

Naturally he spends the rest of the morning on edge and, distressingly, faintly aroused. There’s a terrifying thrill to the idea that at any moment, Papyrus might pull out the toy and play with it again, and the anticipation is almost worse than the actual act would be. He can’t sit still. Magic keeps tingling across his pelvis, sensitising the bone until the weight of his own clothing feels unbearable.

He fantasises about leaving his post. He imagines Papyrus showing up to an empty desk, an expression of frustration crossing his sharp features before he pulls out the toy and shoves his claws in to punish Sans for his vagrancy. Maybe he’ll be suffering like Sans is from the heady weight of carrying around such an illicit item on his person. Maybe he’ll be furious enough to fuck it roughly over the outpost desk while Sans screams and writhes in the privacy of his own room, too senseless to teleport or do anything but futilely wail his brother’s name.

Guilt keeps him at his desk, though, because leaving would be admitting how much he wants that, and _what would Papyrus think_? Would he be completely disgusted by Sans’s depravity? Is the toy really nothing but a convenient means to ensure Sans will keep house and go to work?

He doesn’t dare to touch himself either, because even if Papyrus doesn’t show up (a possibility he can’t decide if he wants or not), there’s always a chance someone else might. Not a human, but maybe one of the dogs out on patrol. Their noses are good. They’d be able to smell Sans’s problem a mile away, and that knowledge somehow makes it worse.

The day is long, and absolutely excruciating.


End file.
